The Kindness of Strangers
by BlackBandit111
Summary: Dean's a good big brother, to anyone. Outside POV.


_**Hello, Supernatural fandom! Pretty much set between episodes, the outside look people see. I know this idea has been done before but I hope you enjoy this little oneshot!**_

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Let me explain something right now: nothing ever happens in my town. My small, sleepy, run-o'-the-mill southern town. It's quiet, secluded, and the town that travelers pass through and say 'aww, aren't they a cute little civilization' and then take the one highway road straight through without looking back. There are no landmarks, no memorable murders. Pretty much everything's normal.

I hated it.

To me, 'normal' was entirely too uninteresting. I grew up on legends, fairy tales of faraway places and fantastical things that one only sees happen in dreams. I grew up believing that I could solve any crime; find any treasure; rescue any damsel. I went through childhood with high expectations for the world inside my little backwater town, and I was found disappointed ten years later.

Now, as a seventeen year old, there was not much I could yet do with my life. I was stuck in that half adult, still a child stage that all teenagers go through the summer before college, and it was absolute torture. I was born already twenty years old, wise eyed, an ever wiser set of parents to guide my decisions. Maturity dawned on my childhood when I was just breaching seven years old.

The two strangers that came to my mother's motel that one day were quiet, secretive looking young men, the kind that my father gave me stern looks to stay away from. Still, I couldn't help the straightening of my back, the curiosity that can still get me into troubled piqued. I placed my book- Grimm's Fairy Tales- face down on the floor by my feet and tried my best to appear professional.

The shorter- not smaller- of the two gave me a hard look, piercing hazel eyes looking straight through me. I wasn't sure if it was meant to cow me into submission or strike the fear of God into me, but it did neither. Living with a man as firm as my father had its kicks. He wore a leather jacket and there was a light sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks- light enough that I picked them up, but they didn't stand out. He was handsome in a rugged way.

The taller of the two was obviously the younger of them, a sweet looking face and even softer hazel eyes. They looked more green than brown at the moment, unlike his companion's, and his shaggy but charming dark hair lay in his face a little. Good looking in that shy, artistic way.

Where the shorter had an air about him that screamed "look at me, I'm the boss" the younger had the aura of a loyal puppy, standing a couple steps behind his friend and staring at him with adoration. I wondered if the blonde could see it.

I found myself narrowing my eyes at them. They looked too similar to be merely friends and stood with their shoulders barely brushing. Without even glancing at each other, they knew where the other was.

Brothers, clearly. I stood the same way when I was next to my brother, familiar with his every movement, his every breath. His ticks.

Just like the elder was familiar with his younger brother's. I could see it in the way the shorter man set his jaw, his eyes barely angled to the side, keeping an eye on his brother out of his peripheral vision.

The younger one smiled at me, a smile full of something warm and gooey and wanted me to melt right there. I was only getting used to being smiled at by young men, my petite figure and womanly features only having just formed completely, but I took it in stride.

"How can I help you today?" I said, my tone pleasant but not pressing. My mother had instilled the skillset to run a motel lobby in me when I was eleven.

The older one grunted and pursed his lips, the younger elbowing him and muttering, "Dean, quit it." Then he turned to me, smiling still, but it was the type of smile that was tired. Weary. The dimples were surprising, but suiting on his somehow baby face. "Hi, we'd like a room please. Two queens."

Dean rolled his eyes as the younger one handed me a card in a silent expression of his payment method, and I smiled and swiped it, trying not to stare outright. Like I said: my town was small and uneventful, and by good God there weren't enough good looking men in it already.

"Staying long?" I asked, trying to keep the hope from my voice, and Dean shoved his brother as he went to answer.

"Sam," he reprimanded sternly but quietly, eyes flashing at me. I felt indignance lick my insides. "Just a couple days," he said, his voice still firm.

Sam murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, "Dean, I feel like Jell-o, please…" and turned to smile at me again. That's when I noticed things past his overall (really, really attractive) appearance: The exhausted rings under his eyes, the bruise peeking just over his jawline into his cheek, the split lip. Sam favored his left side, leaning into it slightly, and his wrist was definitely bent at a wrong angle.

I blinked, astounded with all I'd just picked up.

What were these two strangers involved in? There were plenty of druggies and naughty boys in my quiet town, but usually a night in the sheriff's office cut them clean. But these two strangers..

I turned my attention towards Dean, who I realized had a hand pressed against the small of Sam's back. A solid presence. The stern look wasn't meant to scare me earlier. It was absent concern for his brother.

This made more sense. Quickly, with more efficiency than I think I've ever had in my entire life, I grabbed a set of keys off the rack and pressed it into Dean's outstretched hand, returning the card, and pressed the 'Okay' button on the computer all in unison. "If you need anything," I said, feeling helpless and very, very small just then, "just...ask. Really."

Dean's eyes softened, and his jaw unclenched. It changed his whole face. He looked...not sweet, but something close to it. A little like melting ice. He understood what I meant by that. "Thanks. Really."

Sam gave a groggy nod, and- oh Jesus, how did I not see his clear hurt before? It was like a beacon in those too bright eyes. Fever lit.

When Dean and Sam turned their backs, I realized that Dean wasn't pressing against Sam's for support. It was to hold the stained rag in place.

It was dark red.

I stifled a gasp, my hand flying up to cover my mouth and just as quickly falling away. That hadn't been just a little blood- it was bad. Real bad. Worse than the time Dylan got his hand jammed in the gap between the radiator and the wall, and he ripped it free because it burned so bad and scraped it along the rusted metal grates. I was the one who took care of my brother that day, Dylan silent with tears streaming the whole time.

"S'alright, Sammy, you're alright," I heard Dean mutter, his voice clear and soothing. So different than the man who had walked into the motel in the first place. I smiled. Sammy. "I got ya, I've got ya, Sammy; y'aint gonna fall. Not while I'm here, bitch."

Sammy gave a small, huffy laugh, and murmured in response, "Jerk."

I watched them go down the hallway and out the door, and even then, my heart was clenching painfully.

I couldn't help but be reminded of Dylan. He was as pure as freshly fallen snow before it was stepped in, and he was my whole world. I loved him more than life itself, as cheesy as it may sound. Still do.

It was all my fault, really. Dyl and I were coming back from a party- he was barely twelve at the time, and he hadn't wanted to sleep over- and I wasn't paying attention. Four years older, had just gotten my permit- I wasn't allowed to drive without a parent, but it was a frantic call about his 'friends' doing some bad things and he didn't want to be there anymore, so what kind of a sister would I have been to just leave him there? My parents were out, there was no one I could call, and Dylan sounded close to tears.

I grabbed my keys.

On the way back, he kept saying things like, "saw something crazy, they were doing some strange stuff, Em...Strange stuff. There was this light and the book and the language…"

I thought he was just tired at the time. Turned to look at him, tears clouding in his beautiful green orbs, and I took one hand off the wheel to stroke back some bangs from his face. Too wild blonde hair, Dyl always had.

I didn't see the truck until too late, and it smashed against the passenger's side.

I was surprised how many people turned up for his funeral, but my whole world was shattering.

And I had wanted someone then, someone to have to watch out for, because it would distract me a little. It had only been when I was sixteen, and I had killed my brother, the one person I was responsible for, the only thing in the whole wide universe I was meant to protect. And I didn't. I thought I was, but my plans went astray.

It was fresh, a deep gash in my heart. I use this excuse for the reason I went to their room later that day.

I went armed with gauze, bandages, antiseptic, aspirin, and a couple ice packs piled like ammo into a backpack I grabbed, but I lost my nerve just as I was about to rap on the door. What if these men were bad? What if they hurt me? I was only seventeen.

I was seventeen, and I could take care of myself.

Cementing my spirit, I raised a hand and quickly gave three hard knocks on the door before I could back down again. I waited around two minutes until it was answered.

It was Dean. He looked pale and strained, and his hands were covered in blood. Mild agitation crossed his features and he opened his mouth to probably tell me off, but I put my hands up in a surrender position, exclaiming, "wait! Wait. I have bandages and- and antiseptic. I saw the blood on S- your brother's back earlier. I can help." Because the two hour course on first aid at the local library counted as 'I can help', right?

Dean's eyes narrowed, and the door closed a little more. "How'd you know we're brothers?" He asked warily, and I could feel the tension rippling off him. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to relax, shrugging the backpack from my shoulder.

"Obviously. Two people aren't that comfortable with each other unless they're related. And even if you don't want me to come in, I have supplies. You can take them."

Dean looked me up and down, but I don't know what he was actually searching for. I suppose he found it, though, or didn't find it, because he opened the door fully and jerked his head, letting me inside. I fingered the pocket knife I slipped into my pocket before I came. I'm an idiot, but I'm not stupid.

Dean ran a hand over his face, jogging over to the motionless lump on the far bed. The covers shifted as Sam did, shivers wracking the slim body. My mouth fell open.

There was so much _blood_.

Dean brushed by my arm, snapping me out of my horrified thoughts. "What...did this?" I asked, my lip curling. God, what could have caused that?

Dean shot me a piercing look- not exactly a glare, but not anything else. "Nevermind. Doesn't matter; it's dead now, and you don't want to know. You said you could help?"

I nodded quickly, speeding over to the bed and gently prying away the covers from Sam's trembling form. He had no shirt but was still in the denim jeans he came in, his muscles rippling as he shifted, hands bunching the sheets. I winced in sympathy, pressing a hand against his forehead.

The heat there startled me. "Whoa. Fever. How high?"

Dean grunted. "High enough," he said, and his voice was raspier than before. Deep. Dylan's would have been deep. "The cut on his back is pretty bad, but I was about to head out. Makeshift bandages aren't going so well." He turned Sam onto his stomach for me, and I inhaled sharply. It was an angry red and stretched across the lower portion of Sam's back, from one side to the other. It was deep and weeping blood and a small amount of pus.

I swallowed harshly. I so wasn't cut out for this. "Infected," I muttered to myself, and Dean scoffed from where he was in the bathroom.

"Look, if I had wanted someone to state the obvious, I would've gone to a hospital," he said loudly. "Point is, I didn't. They couldn't help, anyhow. I've already cleaned it with holy- uhh, well, uh, water, and done a couple other things. It won't stop bleeding. I've already tried stitching it, but...Sammy'd have a real bad scar if I did."

Why he would need holy water I hadn't the faintest, but figured this Dean guy knew what he was doing. I knew how to stitch things, though, in small, butterfly stitches that held pretty well. Dylan had once cut his hand on some stray glass from a window, trying to get a baseball out of a car. Needless to say, it hadn't ended well.

I stitched him up.

Clearing my throat, I said, "I can stitch real good- but I don't have a needle or threa-"

"Got 'em," Dean said, reappearing from the bathroom holding dental floss and an expertly threaded needle. My mouth fell open.

"Dental fl-"

"Yeah, yeah, best I got right now," he growled. "Just do it!"

Sighing, I took both from him and, my tongue poking through my teeth, grabbed the washcloth he offered me and wiped away the blood and pus. The pus, I found, was just remaining from before when Dean had cleaned it out, and the wound seemed clean now that the remnants had been wiped away fully. I breathed.

"Okay, mildly infected," I murmured to myself, "better." I could do this.

I could do this.

I smeared some antiseptic on the wound, ignoring Sam's pained groan, and took the needle from where I had nestled it between my lips. Then I began to stitch, close together, small, in the hopes to leave the smallest scar. Sam didn't move again.

I finished, snapping off the rest of the dental floss and tying a small knot to keep them in place. The stitching was mediocre, but Dean was looking at it approvingly, so I suppose I did an okay job.

Grabbing the gauze, my eyes flickered to Sam's brother, who was staring at me knowingly. I flushed. "I'm gonna need you to hold up him while I wind this around his middle," I said, and Dean smirked, raising an eyebrow. I don't know why to this day my awkwardness was so funny to him.

Trying not to blush but knowing from my heated cheeks I failed, my fingers gently smoothed along abs and toned muscle, ribs and firm flesh, as I delicately and tightly wound the ace bandages around Sam's torso. Dean's eyes were glued to my face the whole time, and I determinedly kept my head hanging low, hoping he couldn't see the redness of my ears.

"So...how old are you, anyway?" Dean asked, breaking the silence. I guess that once Sam was out of imminent danger, he had time for small talk.

"Younger than you think," I promised.

Dean nodded, a small, shy smile sitting on his lips. I wondered if I had actually gotten the 'shy' brother right and Dean wasn't secretly him?

I pursed my lips and began re-packing my backpack, tossing Dean a water bottle. He immediately uncapped it and drank half of it, turning to his brother and propping his up with his arm. Sam's head lolled against Dean's neck, his back resting on Dean's bent elbow.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, and I averted my eyes, tears pricking. "Sammy, wake up." Sam gave a small moan, and I assumed his eyes cracked open.

"D'n?"

Dean gave a genuine, shining grin that time, and I thought to myself that if Dean grinned like that everytime he saw someone, the world would be a better place for it. "Hey, Sammy. C'mon. Just swallow some of this, alright?"

"D'n. T'rd." His bandaged wrist, I finally noticed, moved a little, and Dean propped it back up against some pillows. His voice was softer than I'd ever heard anyone's.

"I know. But come on, bitch, swallow some for me." He tilted the bottle against Sam's lips, and Sam swallowed obligingly. Dean let out a small breath. "There we go. Sleep now, Sammy. You're alright. I'm alright."

"D'n. W'ch." Sam slurred, but his eyes were closed and he was already drifting.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, Sammy, I got watch. You sleep now."

Without another word, Sam was dead to the world.

I sighed again (I seemed to be doing that a lot) and glanced down at my bloody hands. Dean gave me an understanding look. "Just...bathroom. Wash 'em."

I nodded, getting to my feet and walking stiffly to the bathroom. Now that the danger was past, the air felt thick again. Soupy with awkwardness and tension. Teenage-girlism had struck again.

I washed my hands, tears blurring my vision as the blood- and the evidence that I had even done anything- was rinsed away. I turned off the faucet, my hands feeling raw and my soul feeling battered.

I stepped out of the bathroom, pulling my blonde hair off my face and dutifully ignoring the look Dean was sending me. It was nothing. Sam had needed help, and I was an older sibling once, and I understood.

I _understood_.

Dean rose from the chair he'd pulled over to Sam's bed and opened the door for me, gently placing a hand on my shoulder as I went to walk away. I stopped, and he gently turned me towards him. Suddenly, he looked a little unsure of himself. I gave him what I hope was an encouraging expression.

He took a deep breath. "So, I appreciate the supplies," he said honestly, for once his face open. The man I saw underneath made my heart soar. I saw a kindred spirit, someone who understood what being an older sibling was like; harrying, worrisome. Hard. But so, so worth it. Every second. I saw someone who knew about the kissing of scraped knees, the telling off of bullies, the tending to illnesses. My parents were never home for reasons that are their own, and it had been me and my brother for a while all alone.

But Dean _understood_.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I was...well. Just...yeah. Take care of yourself." He sighed, running a hand over his hair. He waited a few beats, and I wondered if that was my cue to walk away, when he leaned down (he was still around six feet tall, mind you) and his lips barely brushed against my cheek.

Then the door was shut, and I couldn't decide if I was disappointed or not.

** . . .**

I steered clear of their room for the rest of their stay, figuring they needed space. I still dropped off soup at the door for Sam, though, and usually a homemade roast beef sandwich for Dean. My father could ponder the absence of cold cuts later.

I was just starting another chapter of Grimm's Fairy Tales two days from when Dean and Sam had entered the motel when I heard bickering from down the hall. My head snapping up and my book snapping closed, I watched as Dean and Sam came into view, Sam's color back and a rosy to his cheeks, dimples in full blast. I couldn't help but beam at them.

"Hey," I greeted, trying not to sound like I was tripping over my own two feet. Dean's eyes crinkled in the corners.

"Hey," he said back gruffly, and Sam grinned at me, lowering his voice.

"So, I heard you were the one to give me those expert stitches," he whispered, and I tried to hold back my small giggle.

"It was...nothing," I said, not sure if I was honest or not. Because really, would Dean have stitched Sam himself? Seemed to me not much of an "I can't" situation; more of an "I won't".

Sam shrugged, eyes shining. "Well, in any case," he said, "you really helped us out. Thanks." He sounded so earnestly sincere I had to seriously squash the urge to reach over and hug him. Those dimples. Dylan had dimples. "For everything. The soup was really good and, although Dean won't admit it, he loved the roast beef sandwiches."

Dean elbowed Sam, and it was testament to Sam's condition that he didn't even flinch. A good sign. "Just 'cause I'm not the one who was practically crying when his food ran out don't mean I won't admit I liked it," he grumbled. Sam playfully punched his shoulder back.

I cleared my throat. "Well, it wasn't a big deal," I said, completely honest this time. "I made soup for Dylan when he-" My mouth snapped shut. Sam looked curious, but Dean suddenly looked solemn, his eyebrows pulling together.

Sam's forehead crinkled, and his eyebrows creased. "Well, in case you ever need anything," he slid a piece of paper across the desk, "just call. By the way, what's your name?"

I smiled. Slid the piece of paper into my pocket. "Emma," I answered, tucking some hair behind my ear. Dean huffed, but didn't sound annoyed.

"Good to meet you. Dean. This is Sam."

I nodded. "I know."

Dean smiled; his eyebrow quirked. "Figured. But honestly, if you even need anything or see anything out of the ordinary...call."

"Out of the ordinary?" I questioned, but Sam's eyes stopped me. They were...knowing.

"You'll know," he said seriously, then sent me one more grateful, puppy dog smile before exiting the motel lobby. Dean lingered.

Silently, I slid out from behind the booth and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my ear to his chest, right by his heart. I could feel his surprise radiate through his body, but he seemed to take this in stride, wrapping his arms around my back and tucking my head beneath his chin.

I still don't know why he did it so easily, though. He didn't strike me as a man who was touchy-feely with emotions, but my eyes pricked again with tears because Dean understood. Saw me. Saw what- who- I'd lost last year. Maybe he saw himself in me. I don't know.

He kissed the top of my head, and was gone.

**. . .**

I still don't know where those two brothers went, or where they are now. It's been around a year and a half since then and my quiet little town has stayed quiet. I don't know what drew those two strangers here in the first place, or what happened to Sam to get him so bloody, or why Dean was so uncharacteristically kind to me.

But on the nights where I miss Dylan more than I think I can possibly go on, I remember that little slip of paper on my dresser in my jewelry box, and I go to reach for it. Sometimes I call; sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just need to hear Dean say, "Hello?" And I feel better.

And when things get really hard, so hard that I think I can't possibly get up and fight grief another day, I remember Dean's heartbeat. Strong, sure. There for his little brother. He's still fighting.

So so am I.

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**_So that was my first Fanfic for Supernatural. How'd I do? Good, bad? Was Dean okay? Thanks for reading and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!_**


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